


bruise pristine

by catteeth



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Bottom Kurusu Akira, Established Relationship, Gunplay, M/M, Murder Fantasy, Non-Negotiated Kink, Post-Canon, Referenced Non-Con Fantasy, Roleplay, Sex, Top Akechi Goro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:40:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28427172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catteeth/pseuds/catteeth
Summary: Sometimes, Akira wonders if he's lost a part of himself in that interrogation room that he'll never get back, if he'll spend the rest of his life wondering what Goro looked like when he shot his cognition point-blank in the face.Akira thinks too much about the interrogation room. Goro takes issue.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 8
Kudos: 100





	bruise pristine

**Author's Note:**

> An overdone trope for your reading pleasure. 
> 
> \+ a little domesticity, as a treat.

"Show me how you killed me," Akira tells Goro, this time much later from the comfort of their own bed. No dusty attic, no crates, no coffeeshop—just the soft expanse of a newly bought mattress in a tiny, cheap apartment. Akira rolls, half-naked but fully fucked, onto his side.

"Again?" Goro asks.

"Yes." It comes out as a breath, hot and needy. "Please."

There is no danger anymore, no palaces and no persona, and yet Goro keeps a gun in their bedside drawer anyway. It's illegal at this point—he is neither a cop nor a detective—but Akira finds himself with something of a bad habit. Goro says he's only indulging him, but Akira knows he needs this, too, the quick dilation of his eyes saying more than his mouth ever could.

He removes himself from the tangle of sheets without argument, and Akira’s heart races. He looks _so_ good like this, having grown into himself more, his body having filled out with a sort of lean muscle that has Akira already palming himself in anticipation. Though the remnants of his last orgasm are still dried across his stomach, the dull ache of sex still vibrating softly throughout his body, he can't help his reaction to Goro crouching down and fiddling through the lowermost drawer. 

"Hurry up," he says, pushing himself up and moving to the side of the bed. Already, he's on the cusp of too turned on, so hard that it hurts. The knowing _click_ of the magazine makes his cock jump, like it's pulled taut by an invisible string. Goro hasn't even touched him. 

"Aren't you needy?" Goro smiles in a way that makes his chest tighten, sparing him a glance as he stands from the floor.

"Just... a little," Akira pants.

Somehow, it's fitting that Goro looks so pretty even when holding a gun. Wispy strands of slightly damp hair stick to his face, having fallen out from where he had tied them back into a ponytail. Now, it hangs sloppy and lopsided from being pressed flat into the bed and ridden hard mere hours earlier. The dichotomy suits him, almost cute.

"I don't remember you being like this," he says, off-handed. He has situated himself in between Akira's legs, feet planted firmly on the floor. It's clear what he means.

"Sae-san wouldn't have known that about me," Akira murmurs back. He leans forward to kiss at his chest. It's the perfect height with him standing. "It's not like your cognitive selves were anything like you, either."

"Don't talk about that." 

It starts quick, as it always does. Akira reels when Goro slaps him hard in the face.

The way he moves is liquid and practiced. He isn't a novice with a gun, something Akira knew even back then just from playing Gun About, stupidly aroused in the middle of a public arcade. Though this gun is real, it is different from the Metaverse laser and the interrogation room semi-automatic just by virtue of it being unloaded. It's a point of contention, though, just like the lack of a safe word. Akira swears it's not a death wish. 

His balls tighten and his hips stutter, lifting up and trying to find something to grind against. It is sad that a mere slap can get him going like this. Goro takes a step back, leaving him bucking against air.

"Open your mouth," he says.

Akira does. It's easy to obey. The metal clacks against his back teeth when Goro presses the barrel past his lips into his mouth. He doesn't choke, instead keeps his jaw lax and just lets Goro fuck him with it. It drags across his tongue, heavy and slow, a little metallic, until Goro pushes it further down his throat so that his mouth stretches wide over the trigger guard. He can feel saliva building under his tongue, threatening to spill out past his lips onto his chin.

It's a bit like sucking a dick, he supposes, except dicks can't kill you, and even then, this gun isn't loaded anyway. He increases the suction and rolls his eyes up to look at Goro through his lashes. 

"That's it," Goro says, pleased and face flushed as if it's really his cock in Akira's mouth and not a useless piece of metal. He angles it to the side and pushes it past Akira’s molars to rest against the soft flesh of his cheek. The jagged outline protrudes out there, and Akira knows how it looks, pornographic but somehow wrong, a little too rectangular and rigid. With the tips of his fingers, Goro traces the gun through the barrier of Akira's skin. 

It's softer than he expects, a caress more than anything. He nuzzles into it.

"I wonder what would happen if I pulled the trigger like this."

Akira pulls back. The threat hangs in the air, exposed and vulnerable, his desires on a plate. He knows there isn't a chance—not now at least—but _god_ , does he want it. Feebly, he moves to spit the gun out with his tongue, but Goro only pushes it further, traps his face with his free hand.

"I'd like to blow a hole through this pretty little mouth of yours," he continues, fingers clenched so hard on his jaw that the skin there turns an angry red, a pure white. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? I'd stick my cock through and fuck it."

He would like it. Most of all, he likes Goro like this, less his Goro and more _Akechi_ , drunk and hot off power. How would it feel, he wonders, with his mouth half-blown out and a dick stuck straight through it? His head spins, dizzy, with the need for more. 

"Please—" he starts, but chokes instead. It's difficult to talk with a full mouth.

"Hm?" Goro asks. There's a brief flash of hesitation as he loosens his grip before pulling out completely. Akira can see it in his eyes, how he is trying to reconcile this part of himself without entering dangerous territory. He's losing him. "Too much for you?" 

The thing is: it isn't. It's never enough for him. He wants Goro in his entirety, the good and the bad parts, the absolute wholeness of him. He wants him to _fuck_ his brains out and then _blow_ his brains out, and not necessarily in that order. Sometimes, Akira wonders if he's lost a part of himself in that interrogation room that he'll never get back, if he'll spend the rest of his life wondering what Goro looked like when he shot his cognition point-blank in the face. 

"Come on," Akira says instead, "don't make me beg." He jerks himself a little to keep his erection from flagging. "Keep going."

Goro crowds him. He has tossed the gun somewhere near the edge of the bed and spreads Akira's legs wide, and it's just how Akira wants them to be, slutty and eager, open. He pushes himself up and licks into Goro's mouth, hoping to entice him. He bites and sucks at his lips, tongues around his teeth.

He isn't expecting it when Goro grabs him and then slides his fingers under his balls, ignoring his cock completely. 

"Ah, looks like those investigators got to you before I did," he whispers against him, apropos of nothing.

He’s trying, at least. It's just Goro's own orgasm leaking out from earlier, but that would have been something, wouldn't it—Goro finding him, the real him, not a cognitive double, fucked out, clothes ripped and body bruised on the dirty interrogation room floor. He wonders how it would have really played out: if Goro would have lifted him up and tossed him back into the chair or if he would have just taken him right there on the cold, hard ground. 

Akira imagines it and shivers. It would be almost clinical, sterile in a way. Goro would spread him open, and the leather of his gloves would come away dirty and wet. His face, usually so impenetrable, would twist in a mixture of disgust and arousal, and even through a drugged delirium, Akira would be able to tell just how bad he wanted it. 

The sharp click of Goro's tongue as he lines himself up brings Akira back to reality. His cock is rubbing against him, threatening to breach the ring of muscle there. They both know he's easily fucked like this, just loose and waiting, still sopping wet from Goro's last load. 

"Who knew the leader of the Phantom Thieves was such a cock-hungry whore?"

 _God_. Was he always this good? He's so quick to get back into it. Akira wraps his legs around his waist to pull him in closer. It dislodges Goro, making him grind against his asscheeks and thighs instead. Akira doesn't care—it feels good, wanton in a way, like Goro can't control himself. 

"Yes," Akira babbles, "I'm a slut." He tries to sandwich his cock between their bodies, needing that friction, needing _something_. He feels so empty. "I would let _anyone_ do _anything_ to me."

"Anyone, hm?" Goro reaches up underneath him and grabs at the meat of his ass and kneads it, hard. "Clearly. You've been letting me fuck you for the better part of the past year." 

Akira pulls back and shoots him a look, disappointed. "Please." He needs this. "Stay in character." Akechi Goro, he thinks, November twentieth. 

"I don't think I will." He pushes inside without warning. The head pops past Akira's rim, and if he wasn't already so loose, he'd be split open, burning. "Turn over. And don't let my cock fall out."

He tries his best, pushing his ass back so Goro's cock bottoms out inside him much too quickly, and then, precariously, flips over onto his stomach. His chest hits the bed, and he steadies himself, puts his arms out so that he can easily grip onto sheets. When Goro pushes him down and rocks into him, Akira notices how good the bed smells, like this morning’s sex mixed with Goro's expensive cologne, a light, clean scent, the hint of his sweat lingering underneath. 

"So," Goro starts, now pumping into him in earnest before he can get too comfortable, "do you have something you want to tell me?" He grabs a fistful of hair and pulls him up so he's flush against his chest. The comforting smell of the sheets is replaced by nothing but the sharp ache of Goro's nails digging into his scalp.

It's not bad. It's good, even. "I don't know what you're—ah," Goro tugs at him again, "talking about."

"Yes, you do."

"No," he grits out. He can tell Goro is purposefully avoiding his prostate, fucking him at an angle that feels almost unbearable and scrapes at his insides. "I don't."

"So, you think I'm stupid, then."

"Of course not."

"Well. If you want it so bad, fine." 

Goro tosses him off his cock by his hair, and Akira gapes around nothing, whines from lack of stimulation, until he hears the unmistakable jingling of loose cartridges behind his back. He didn't even know they had bullets, much less here in the bedroom, somewhere so easily accessible to even Akira. It's entirely feasible, he figures, that Goro still has connections. He turns to look, but Goro is quicker.

"Don't," he says, serious. “Stay there.”

In the real world, Akira knows there is no Diarahan, no Samarecarm—he cannot be blown apart and then expect to be put back together again. His nerves thrum hot throughout his body, tingling, and he swears he must be visibly vibrating from it. He is pliable, almost a ragdoll, when Goro moves him around how he wants him, scoots him fully up onto the bed and then climbs up behind him. Akira can feel how achingly hard he is.

"Why are you doing this to me?" It's quiet, not meant to be heard. In his haze, Akira doesn't— _can’t_ —know what he means.

The gun, this time loaded, moves slow across his spine, up and over each of his vertebrae in a hard knock. Though the metal is cold, it feels hot against his back, scorching, even, so dangerous that Akira is afraid he'll burn up right there on the mattress. He arches his back and pushes his ass out, and when Goro's cock rubs against him, he jolts. In a frenzy, he reaches back to shove it inside. He needs it, now, before the feeling dissolves, before Goro loses his nerve again. His own erection leaks heavy onto the sheets, but he doesn't dare touch it. He already feels like he could come. 

"Goro, oh my god—" 

He's inside again, so hot and thick, and the gun is pressed up against the nape of his neck. It would be _easy._ So quick.

"Is this what you wanted?"

" _Yes_." It's probably the first time he's been completely honest. "I've always wanted this. I haven't _not_ wanted it since—"

"Is this easy for you, then?" A particularly hard thrust has Akira steadying himself on his elbows. Another has Akira crying out as Goro's balls slap hard against his ass. "Your life is so _perfect_ that you can just play pretend like it never even happened?"

It's not totally registering, not when Akira is so full, just on the brink of coming. He wishes Goro would flip him over and shoot him right here and now, apartment be damned. The blood would soak through the mattress in a way that blood would never have soaked through the concrete of the interrogation room. A crime scene so nasty, so gruesome, in which the spatter of skull fragments and brain matter would litter across their quaint little bedroom wall, the last bits of Joker that Akira has left just pouring out from his head. And Goro, well, he’d manage, right, at least he’d _finally_ get what he wanted—

"I'm going to come," he says, without having ever even touched his cock. It's too much—he's wound too tightly, about to break.

"Do it, then," Goro spits.

He comes harder than he's come in a long time, and it's painful, like it's being wrung out deep from within him, his vision tunneling and then blurring at the edges. His orgasm pools out onto the sheets in thick globs, and he can hear how Goro's breathing changes when his hole twitches and grips around him with the aftershocks. It doesn't take long for him to follow, hand gripping so tight onto Akira's hip that it'll probably be purple and green by morning.

"I wanna face you," he says after, collapsed in a heap in his own filth.

Gingerly, Goro pulls out and turns him over, and Akira can see that his anger has fizzled out into a flat annoyance. He's more of a mess than before, the scrunchie that once held up his hair long gone, lost somewhere in between the bed and Akira's gangly limbs.

They're both in desperate need of a shower. Though the sheets are wet, Akira pulls them up and over his body anyway. He feels about two seconds from a deep sleep, the kind you can only get after a fuck like this. 

He gestures to the gun. "You can put that away, you know."

"Yes," Goro says. “I know.”

* * *

In the morning, Akira wakes up alone, the sheets half-tucked into the mattress on Goro's side in an attempt to make the bed with someone still in it. Groggily, he walks into the kitchen and finds him already freshly showered and fully dressed, sitting at the counter with his head bent over his laptop. He doesn't look up when Akira tumbles in.

"Coffee?" Akira asks, already rummaging for the stainless steel pour-over filter and the grinds from yesterday's breakfast. He pulls two mugs from the dishrack and rinses them for posterity as the water warms on the stovetop. 

Goro shuts his laptop. 

"Look," he starts. His elbow is on the counter, head in his hand, fingers pulling back his bangs in a way that parts his hair. It reveals the deep furrow of his brow. "We can't keep doing this. _I_ can't keep doing this."

The mug threatens to drop when Akira's hand trembles. He can see it so clearly, how the ceramic would fall to the floor and shatter into a million invisible pieces, nothing but dust beneath Goro's feet. 

Akira tightens his grip and opens the fridge with his free hand. "Would you like cream?" he asks, like he hasn't been making Goro's coffee the exact same way for the past year. "We also have oat milk, if you prefer."

"Akira," Goro tries again. 

"Okay, cream it is." 

"Clearly, this relationship isn't—it just isn't healthy." 

The kettle whistles loud from across the kitchen, an alarm. Half-listening, Akira goes through the motions of measuring the grinds against the water: _fifty grams of coffee for seven-hundred grams of water._

"I'm obviously triggering something in you—"

_Allow forty-five to fifty-five seconds for the grinds to bloom. In a circular motion, pour water into the filter, about two-hundred grams._

"—and someone shouldn't do that to their partner."

"Okay, so what." All this talk is screwing with his coffee routine, not to mention his afterglow. He's sore in all the right places, hip perfectly bruised in a way that hurts when he accidentally brushes up against it with his arm. His ass leaks more come than he thought even possible. "I can handle it. I've _been_ handling it."

Goro's mouth twitches. "Is that what you're calling it?" 

Well, neither of them are exactly experts on trauma response, are they? He lets that slip.

"Maybe we both should go live normal lives," Goro continues, the absolute piece of shit, "with normal people who know nothing about our pasts."

"But that's what I like about you. You _know_ me. You're different. _This_ ," he gestures around, as if the kitchen, the coffee, the apartment hold all the answers, "is different. You're the only one—"

"I'm _the only one_ what? Crazy enough for you? Deranged enough to fuck you with a gun to your head and like it?"

"I don't think that about you." He sets down the coffee in front of Goro and stares at him. "But I'm glad you like it. I do, too."

Goro stares back. It's not as childish as a stare-off, but close, neither of them looking away. Akira takes this time to really look at Goro, to see how the barest hint of collarbone peeks out from his t-shirt. It looks like he's scrubbed himself raw with how pink the skin there is. He's too buttoned-up, too pretty, for the morning after a marathon of rough, apparently argument-worthy sex. 

Without breaking eye contact, Goro lifts his mug. Coffee sloshes over the rim onto the counter when he sips from it, clearly overfilled, too much cream. Akira's the first to look away, somehow suddenly embarrassed by the whole thing. He uses the edge of his sleeve to wipe at the spill until the counter shines bright with their reflections.

"So, is the coffee okay?" he asks. He fiddles idly with his hair, pretending to be particularly interested in a lopsided curl. He wishes they could have at least showered together.

"I've had better."

"No, you haven't." He prepares his own mug, which has likely gone lukewarm. 

It's hard to promise anything. He knows Goro will understand, though, because Goro _knows_ him. Akira knows what Goro will say, too, and he's right: this isn't just sex. It was—it _is_ —reality, no matter how far removed he feels from it now, no matter how domestic his life has turned out. Just because Goro didn't succeed in killing Akira doesn't mean he didn't _try_ , and god, did he try, too, months of worming his way into his good graces only to fail and fail hard. Look where he ended up, anyway, right smack dab in the middle of Akira’s bed.

"Look," he says, and it’s not as hard to say as he thought it would be. “If this is really bothering you, I'll, uh,” he searches for the right words, “be more mindful."

"I appreciate it." That's that, then? "Now, please cook breakfast."

Akira mimics wrapping an apron around his waist, Leblanc-style. "Yes, sir."


End file.
